Sierra pulled her shoulders back. “That seems so invasive. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “This is all too sudden.”
“Then we’ll get a warrant. Excuse me.” Jackson sent a text to Evans and Schak, updating them to get the paperwork. He looked up and caught Sierra’s eyes. “Why didn’t you report your husband missing when he failed to come home last night?”
“I didn’t know anything was wrong.”
“He often stayed out all night?”
“No.” Sierra started to cry again.
Watching family members grieve was the toughest part of his job. It made him feel like a callous voyeur.
“He was gone for so long,” she said between sobs. “Ten months in Afghanistan, then four months in the Madigan Army Medical Center. And now he’s gone for good.”
Jackson steeled himself against her pain, starting to think she might not be their suspect.
“Can you give me a minute, please?” she begged. “Alone?”
If she was innocent, her request was completely reasonable. If she’d killed her husband, a minute alone would give her time to destroy files, warn others, or hide evidence. He glanced around her cluttered office as she sobbed. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right outside.”
He left the door ajar and stepped out of her line of sight. Across the hall, an open door revealed an examining room, and Jackson glanced in. Not being a pet owner, he’d never been inside a veterinary clinic. It looked much like a doctor’s workspace, only the table was stainless steel. The metal counter was lined with a similar assortment of gauze, steel instruments, and syringes. A tingle shot up his neck. He slipped into the room and took a quick look at the two syringes lying there: long and thin with blue stoppers, like the one from the crime scene. He pulled his camera from his carryall bag and took close-up photos. The pictures would help him get a subpoena to confiscate a few syringes for comparison.
Jackson hurried back across the hall into Sierra Kent’s office. She was on her cell phone, whispering, her tears gone. When she saw him, she abruptly cut off the call.
“I have to ask you some important questions.” Jackson stayed on his feet to be intimidating. Sierra was a high-priority suspect now.
“Can it wait? I need to call Rafel’s family.”
“No, it can’t. Please put down the phone.”
She started to argue, then relented.
Jackson wanted to take her into the interrogation room at the department, but he suspected she wouldn’t go without being cuffed and dragged. With his luck, the receptionist would take a picture with her cell phone and post it online, and the department would take a public beating for abusing a grieving widow.
“What did you and Rafel fight about at the tavern last night?”
“It was nothing.” Her face hardened, a little beauty slipping away.
“You arrived at the tavern after he did. Did you know he was there?”
“Of course. He called me and asked me to come down.”
“When was that?”
“Around eight thirty.”
“Is the call in your cell phone?”
“Yes. I can show you, if it’s important.” She scrolled through her data, looking for the call.
“What did he say?”
“He said he missed me, but he sounded drunk and depressed.”
“Was that normal behavior for him?”
A sob burst from her throat. “I don’t know. Since he came back from Afghanistan, he’s been different—angry, depressed, suspicious.”
Jackson sat down and softened his tone. “Was he getting counseling?”
“He went a few times to make me happy, but he hated it.”
“Were you cheating on him?”
Her frosty-blue eyes sparked with anger. “I resent that.”
“Tell me what you fought about.”
She sighed. “He accused me of cheating. He’d become obsessed with the idea.” She met Jackson’s eyes. “Rafel was paranoid. The war changed him.”
Jackson thought the war changed everyone who went over. “Where did you go when you left the tavern?”
“I stopped to see a friend, then went home.”
“What friend?”
“Madison Riley. She works in another bar.”
“What bar and what time did you get home?”
“Game Day, over on Highway 99. I left at ten thirty and got home around eleven.”
Plenty of time to kill her husband. “I’d like you to come down to the department and make a statement.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll record your version of events for clarity.”
“You think I knifed my husband?” Her hands clenched into fists. “Don’t waste your time with me. Get out of here and find the real killer.”
“I can’t do that without your help.” Jackson leaned forward, earnest. “I need to know more about your husband’s life. Tell me who his friends are and who he’d spent time with lately.”
“I want to see him first.”
“He’ll be in the morgue later. You can call the medical examiner and arrange it.”
She bit a trembling lip. “He has two close friends, Jake Pittman and Cody Sawyer. They’ve known each other since grade school. Rafel also has some army buddies he gets e-mails from, but they don’t live here.”
Jackson jotted down the names. “Has anyone new come into his life recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have his finances changed?”
A hesitation. “I don’t know. We kept our money separate.” She suddenly sucked in a quick breath. “Oh no.”
“What is it?”
“Adam. Rafel’s son.” Her eyes signaled panic.
Jackson realized there was more to the situation. “Is he your child as well?”
“No. He’s from Rafel’s first marriage, but he lives with us.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“She’s dead.”
That piqued his curiosity, but the details could wait. “How old is Adam and where is he now?”
“He’s eight and in school.” Sierra glanced at the clock on the wall. “He’ll be home soon on the bus, and I’ll have to tell him.” She looked distressed.
“I’ll be there with you if it helps.”
Sierra closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “What am I going to do now?”
CHAPTER 5
As a civilian, Lara Evans loved River Road because, unlike the new cookie-cutter subdivisions, many of the homes here were distinctive, with large, lush lots. As a police officer, she hated the area because parts of it were in her jurisdiction and other parts were considered county, and it was difficult to keep straight. Houses sitting right next to each other could be under different law enforcement.
She finally located Mazari’s address on Santa Rosa and parked at the end of the driveway, wondering how long she’d have to wait for Schak to get the paperwork. She studied the home to see if it would tell her anything about the occupants. The first thing she noticed was a skateboard on the front porch, making her wince. The victim had a kid. She didn’t feel compelled to have any of her own, but she had a soft spot for all the poor children whose parents ended up in trouble—or dead.
The house—painted lavender with an overgrown perennial garden for a front lawn—was unusual, even in this area. Had she not known, Evans would have bet her paycheck a military man did not live there. So much for stereotypes. It made her wonder about his wife though. Evans climbed out of her city-issued Impala and took photos of the house. Feeling pumped, she decided to take a quick look around. What could it hurt?
The path to the front door was a series of rough-cut stone steps, embedded in ornamental moss, surrounded by tangled vegetation. If Mazari and his wife were homeowners, they weren’t trying to keep up with the neighbors. The front porch held a stack of empty ceramic planters, a stool made from a tree stump, and the skateboard she’d noticed earlier. Just as she spotted some muddy
dog prints on the gray concrete, loud barking began. A dog was in the house. Great. She’d check around back.
Evans found a path in the vegetation that led around the side of the house. She reached over the short gate and let herself into the backyard, moving cautiously in case the dog was free to come and go from the house. The barking stayed inside, so she took a few more steps along a sawdust path, then stopped and stared. The oversize yard had been turned into a miniature farm. Chickens roamed freely from the coop in the back corner, and a thirty-foot greenhouse took up half the property. A dog run occupied a fair amount of space as well, and three beehives sat in a patch of clover. Evans steered clear of the hives and scanned the area directly behind the house. A huge woodpile sat on one side of a narrow wooden deck, and a small generator was on the other.
Were they survivalists? These people looked like they wanted to sustain themselves in case everything went to hell and they had to live off the grid. She’d bet they had a stockpile of weapons too. Seeing nothing potentially connected to the murder, Evans left the surreal backyard and trotted to her car.
She checked her cell phone to see if Schak had called or sent a message about the search warrant. Since he hadn’t, she walked next door to a neighbor, where she saw a PT Cruiser in the driveway. Might as well start gathering information. She knocked on the door and was pleased when it opened seconds later. The cranky-looking middle-aged man was not who she expected.
“Detective Evans with the Eugene Police. I’d like to ask some questions about your neighbors.”
“The loud ones in the purple house?”
Lara suppressed a smile. “Yes. Can I come in?”
“For a few minutes. My granddaughter will be home from school soon, and it’s our time together.”
“What’s your name?” Evans asked, as they sat down on padded dining-room chairs.
“Sam Regal.” He seemed rigid, his thick torso straining the buttons on his denim work shirt.
“You said your neighbors were loud. What kind of loud?”
“They argue a lot. Is that why you’re here? To investigate the noise complaints?”
“It’s more serious than that. Do you know what they argue about?”
“Money, mostly. And the kid. I don’t think the stepmother likes him very much.”
Evans took notes as quickly as she could. “Did you ever see them strike each other?”
The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised by it.”
“What kind of car does the wife drive?”
“A green Jetta. Why?”
“What time did she come home last night?”
“I have no idea. I was watching the game.”
Lara had no idea what game. “Did you know Rafel or ever talk to him?”
“Not really. He deployed about six months after they moved in, then he was gone for a year.”
“How long has he been back?”
“About six months. It’s been rough for him.”
“How so?” Evans could imagine, but she needed specifics.
“He once told me he worried he’d never find a job or work again. He seemed depressed.”
“Do you know any reason someone might want him dead?”
The neighbor looked startled. “No. Is he dead?”
“He was killed last night. Was anyone here while you watched the game?”
“Of course. My daughter and my granddaughter. Why?” He pushed up from his chair.
The move unnerved her, and Lara jumped up too. Her right hand came up reflexively, ready to reach for her weapon. He grabbed the back of his chair, and she relaxed.
“I’m just doing my job. We have to question everyone connected to the victim.”
“I understand, but I can’t help you. I didn’t know them that well. I’d like you to go now, before my little girl gets home.”
“Thanks for your time.” Evans gave him a business card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us solve this crime.”
As she headed for the door, he called out, “Wait.”
Evans turned back. “Yes?”
“Two weeks ago—on a Saturday, I think—they were fighting. I heard his wife threaten to kill him.”
Lara’s pulse quickened. “What exactly did she say?”
“They were getting into her car and yelling back and forth. She said something about how worthless he was. Then he said something I didn’t understand. She screamed, ‘I should kill you myself!’ Then she slammed the car door, and they drove off.”
Lara walked away with mixed feelings. Finding a solid suspect early in an investigation meant they’d likely get a conviction, but it also meant the chase was over and the tedious case building would begin.
CHAPTER 6
Jackson arranged to meet Sierra Kent at her home, noticing he thought of her as Sierra instead of Kent, the way he referred to male suspects. Even female coworkers got last-name treatment. Depersonalizing was how they made their job bearable at times. It was Sierra’s beautiful face, he realized, and he knew he had to get past the distraction.
He jotted down the license plate of her Jetta as she left the parking lot, torn between following her home to make sure she arrived and taking a quick detour to the crime lab to drop off the syringe for dusting. He still needed Sierra’s prints for comparison, and unless she’d been arrested, he would likely need a court order to get them.
On instinct, Jackson climbed in his cruiser and followed the Jetta. Her refusal to let them search her husband’s possessions made him distrust her. And the fact that she hadn’t thought about her stepson until late in the conversation also made him wonder what kind of mother she was. Yet she volunteered her free time to treat the pets of homeless people. Killer or not, Sierra Kent was an unusual woman.
Two unmarked blue sedans took up the space in front of the house on Santa Rosa, and the green Jetta was in the driveway. A patrol unit would arrive soon for backup. Jackson parked in front of the well-kept home next door and walked over. Evans, Schak, and Sierra were on the front porch, engaged in a heated debate. As Jackson hurried up the slick stones, he realized only Sierra was being loud.
Schak, warrant envelope in hand, patiently explained his position. “Time is critical to solving this murder. The killer already has a twelve-hour head start.”
“Twenty minutes,” Sierra pleaded. “I just want you to wait in your cars until Adam comes home and I have a chance to tell him what happened. He’ll freak out if he walks in the house and sees cops searching through his dad’s things.”
As Jackson neared the group, a dog started barking. Crap.
Evans asked over the noise, “Do you have weapons in the home?”
Jackson tensed again. Evans didn’t ask idle questions.
Sierra stiffened. “A few. What difference does it make?”
Jackson cut in. “Ms. Kent, we appreciate your concern for the boy’s feelings, but we have to proceed with our investigation. We’ll stay out of the living room until you’ve had a chance to talk to Adam. Open the door.”
She didn’t move.
“It will look even worse to the boy if you’re handcuffed and locked in the back of a patrol car.” Jackson didn’t enjoy threatening people, but he had to treat this woman more like a suspect. If she was only a grieving widow, he would have to live with this decision.
“This is my mother’s property. She’ll sue you.”
Nobody responded. They’d heard the threat every day as patrol cops and still heard it all the time from suspects.
“We have a warrant. Open the door and get control of the dog.” Jackson raised his voice. Gorgeous or not, Sierra Kent was a pain in the ass.
“Heartless bastards!” She spun toward the door.
Jackson followed his teammates inside, inhaling the acidic aroma of recently canned tomatoes. The small house had pale-yellow walls, threadbare puke-green carpeting, and a barking black Lab. Sierra kneeled, grabbed the dog by the collar, and tried to sooth
e the whimpering animal.
“Where is Rafel’s computer?” Jackson asked.
“We share one, and it’s in the dining room.” She pointed at the small area separating the living room from the kitchen. Next to a small table stacked high with newspapers, canning jars, and baskets of vegetables stood a cluttered computer desk.
Jackson looked over at Schak, who nodded and sat down in front of the monitor. His partner, who hadn’t used a computer until the department issued him one at the age of thirty-five, had become quite proficient at finding hidden personal files.
“Show me where his clothes and personal items are.”
“Let me put Kiesha in her dog run first. You’re upsetting her. She can tell you hate dogs.”
Jackson only nodded. He didn’t hate dogs; he just didn’t trust them. He’d nearly lost his left eye to a dog and hadn’t made the mistake of getting that close again.
As Sierra took the dog out the sliding glass door, Jackson turned to Evans. “What made you ask about weapons?”
“I think they’re survivalists. They’ve got a minifarm and a generator out back. Plus, the victim is military.”
“Good call. I don’t trust the wife. She may be connected to the syringe from the crime scene. Let’s pick up the weapons as evidence. I don’t want her to have access to them.” He moved toward Schak. “Is the warrant specific about confiscating personal items?”
“I wrote it broadly and Judge Cranston signed it, so I think we’re good.” Schak held out the warrant.
Jackson took the envelope, but stuffed it in his shoulder bag. “I trust you.”
Sierra came back in, and Jackson said, “We want to see the weapons. We’ll take them to the lab for documentation.”
“This is bullshit. My husband was murdered! He’s a victim, and you’re treating us both like criminals.”
Jackson didn’t blame her for feeling that way, but he had to follow procedure. He noticed Schak staring at Sierra instead of the computer. Her face was a work of art and hard to turn away from. “I’m sorry,” Jackson said, meaning it. “This is just procedure. Everything will be returned eventually, even the guns, as long as they’re registered.”
Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 4
